(Un)Familiar Territory
by nanaa127
Summary: All four Musketeers ride out together for the first time since returning to Paris. Things do not go very well. (Very early S3)
1. Chapter 1

The formation they rode in was unfamiliar, and Aramis was acutely aware of the difference. Before, they'd almost always ridden two by two, if the width of the trail allowed it. Athos would be alongside D'Artagnan, and Porthos by Aramis. Or perhaps Aramis would ride with D'Artagnan, while Athos and Porthos entertained each other. It had never mattered much to Aramis, as he had equally enjoyed the company of all his brothers. Now, it was a triangle of Athos, D'Artagnan and Porthos, followed by Aramis in the back. Aramis wasn't quite sure if it was deliberate, or whether he was simply an afterthought. Perhaps they'd forgotten that he was there with them altogether.

There was a clear divide in his life now. There was the Before, and there was the After. Aramis didn't know exactly when the After had started. At first, he hadn't been certain whether there even was an After. Porthos had been understandably upset when they'd first reunited, but Aramis had thought that it would pass quickly. They'd enjoyed a moment in the woods after the skirmish with the arms smugglers, relishing the thrill of a righteous fight and laughing at the audacity of what they had pulled off. It had all felt so right to Aramis, in that moment. He had been content with his peaceful life at the monastery, and he loved the orphans under his care, but none of it had settled into his bones the way a good battle did, not even after four years.

Aramis supposed that it was easiest to say the After had originated in Paris, upon his very recent return to the city. It had certainly made itself very obvious, then. But perhaps that was too late. Perhaps the After had actually begun at some point during his four year absence, or when he had decided to leave for Douai. Maybe the After had begun when he'd made his vow, alone and desperate in a prison cell.

 _No,_ Aramis thought. That felt wrong. Was it when Rochefort had entered their lives? Or was the After even older? Was it possible that the seeds of the After had been sown at a beautiful, ancient convent, where one old love had died and a new one had been born?

"Aramis? Aramis!" Fingers snapped sharply in front of his face. "Are you with me?"

"Pardon?" The marksman shook himself out of his thoughts and found D'Artagnan riding next to him, a concerned frown turning down his mouth. Aramis flushed hot with embarrassment. Absentminded contemplation was acceptable when weeding a garden wearing a monk's robes. It was absolutely unacceptable when riding into an unstable situation wearing a Musketeer's pauldron.

"Is something the matter?" D'Artagnan asked quietly. Aramis was grateful for the Gascon's discretion. He glanced at the backs of Athos and Porthos, both of whom were still riding ahead, seemingly unknowing or unconcerned by Aramis' lapse in concentration.

"No, everything is fine," he said, straightening his spine and pasting on what he hoped looked like a genuine smile.

"We're approaching the village," D'Artagnan informed him. "Stay sharp; we don't know if the deserters have hit this area yet."

Aramis tipped his hat in acknowledgement and tilted his head down to hide fact that his face had warmed again at D'Artagnan's instructions. It was a bit disconcerting to be treated like a green cadet by a Musketeer that he'd helped train, but he knew that D'Artagnan was simply doing his duty. Considering that Aramis' attention had been wandering, it was more disturbing that he'd needed the warning at all.

D'Artagnan rode on ahead and rejoined Athos and Porthos as they continued on. The dense forest that they were traveling through began to thin out and soon gave way to rolling hills that were blanketed by grapevines. In the distance, one of the small outlying villages north of Reims was visible. They were close to the border here, but still far enough that Aramis did not see any signs of recent battle or the passing of an army.

The four men paused on the trail as they surveyed the area. From here, the village looked peaceful and quiet. The setting sun reflected off the pale stone and plaster buildings, while lazy smoke drifted up from chimneys perched upon low, slanted roofs. It looked just like many of the towns and villages they'd visited over the course of their years together while serving the King.

"It appears we've arrived before trouble has," Athos said, peering through his spyglass. He handed it off to Porthos, who also made a visual sweep of the land.

"I hope that means they still have food," Porthos said. "I'm getting hungry."

"You're always hungry," Aramis murmured fondly. He was expecting to be ignored but was pleasantly surprised when his friend shrugged.

"Big man, big appetite," Porthos said shortly.

"You're going to develop a big belly to go with it," D'Artagnan teased. "We're not on the front any more, you know."

"Watch it," Porthos growled. "Big belly or not, I can still crush you."

"How so? By sitting on me? You'd have to catch me first," the Gascon shot back.

"Four years at war and they still bicker like children," Athos said to Aramis, shaking his head as he shared a knowing look with the former monk. Aramis smiled in response, pleased by Athos' easy manner. This felt good. It had been missing from his life for what seemed like an eternity.

As the Musketeers rode in to the village, they were greeted by glances of uncertainty or fear, and in some cases, outright hostility. The conflict with Spain was taking its toll, not only in the loss of soldiers' lives, but in the loss of trust by the populace. Villages such as this one had been repeatedly forced to give up their men and their resources to support the war effort, and it was clear that these people had reached their limit. Aramis couldn't blame the villagers. He himself was a creature of war, a man that had been placed on earth to fight, but he realized that every campaign was built on the backs of the average citizen. He'd had plenty of time to reflect upon those sacrifices at Douai, where the monks had done their best to supplement the nearby villages with their humble offerings when the Crown had taken more than the people could bear.

They housed their mounts at the local stable and headed towards the tavern. As Porthos and D'Artagnan sat themselves at a small wooden table in the corner, Aramis and Athos approached the innkeeper who was stacking mugs behind the bar. The small establishment was only about half-full. Athos introduced himself to the old man, who looked distinctly unimpressed.

"What do you want?" he asked gruffly. "We already paid our taxes. Twice, I might add. We've nothing more to give."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "We are the King's Musketeers, not his tax collectors," he said dryly. "We're looking for information on a band of Spanish deserters. They've been raiding villages near here."

The man shrugged. "Haven't heard anything. We haven't had much contact with our neighbors."

"Are you sure? Should the pattern of their attacks continue, your village would be next."

The innkeeper snorted. "And what would they be raiding for? We have already been stripped to the bone by the King for this useless war." He spat out the last bit angrily and Athos' eyes narrowed dangerously.

"You are walking a fine line between honest grievance and treason," he warned. "Take care not to cross it in my presence."

The innkeeper opened his mouth to respond when Aramis stepped in. "I understand times have been difficult for you, as they have been for all of us," he said placatingly even as he hefted his arquebus onto his shoulder. "His Majesty appreciates your contributions."

"He can show is appreciation by leaving us alone. We don't want you here."

Athos and Aramis glanced at each other. "Be that as it may, this is a matter of security," Athos said coolly. "And should these deserters descend upon your village, I can promise that they will do more than take your coin. They have left nothing but devastation in their wake."

"Then while you're here, I suppose you can make yourselves useful. You're supposed to be fighting the Spanish, aren't you?" the man replied with something that bordered on a sneer.

When it became abundantly clear that the old innkeeper had nothing useful he was going to share, they walked away from the bar. They joined Porthos and D'Artagnan, who had made better use of their time by tucking into hot bowls of thin soup served alongside heels of fresh bread. An open bottle of wine beckoned. Porthos looked up as they sat.

"Anything?"

"No," Athos said as he helped himself to the wine. "Although he wasn't shy about sharing his distaste for the King's collections. Or for us."

Porthos shrugged. "There's a war going on. At least he's not the one out there fighting it."

"These people are fighting it in their own way," Aramis pointed out. "You don't need to swing a sword to feel its effects."

Porthos' face darkened. The spoon he dropped landed in his meal with a small splash. "You think I don't know that? You think that we didn't see what the war did to people while we were on the march?"

"I don't doubt that you did." Aramis backpedaled quickly and then swallowed the rest of his words with a small sigh. Trying to hold a simple conversation with Porthos had very recently become a delicate and exhausting exercise in restraint. He would unexpectedly find himself on the back foot, never certain when his words would offend his old friend. It was startling to discover that his once easy-going brother had developed such a prickly side.

Aramis pushed himself back from the table and slouched in his seat, crossing his arms and allowing the rest of the conversation to wash over him. Porthos had not wanted Aramis to come on this mission, while Athos had been lukewarm on the idea. Rather, it had been D'Artagnan that had thrown the weight of his enthusiastic support behind Aramis, arguing for his inclusion.

"He will have to join our missions at some point," D'Artagnan had said. "Why not now?"

"He's not ready, that's why," Porthos snapped back. "It'll be too dangerous."

D'Artagnan snorted. "You allowed me to join an attack on a renegade Red Guard camp before I was even a cadet. Aramis was - _is -_ a full Musketeer, and has been one for longer than any of us. Why is there a question as to whether he is ready?"

"Because he's spent the last four years growing soft in a monastery, that's why. He's going to get himself killed. Or he's going to get one of us killed," the big man replied angrily.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Isn't that what we, his brothers, are here for then?" he'd asked softly. "I'm willing to watch his back to ensure that doesn't happen. Aren't you?"

Porthos had responded by walking away, throwing his arms up into the air in disgust. Aramis had been inside the armory, cleaning and testing weapons when the loud argument had unfolded in the courtyard. His heart had ached a bit upon hearing Porthos proclaim his misgivings so resoundingly, but it hadn't been anything new or shocking to Aramis. If he was honest with himself, the same uncertainty had been plaguing him since he'd returned, insidiously smearing his confidence with a black smudge of doubt.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud scream outside. The four men leapt to their feet, grabbed their weapons and raced out the door to find chaos bearing down on them. Reports of Spanish deserters attacking towns near the border had trickled into the city a few months ago, but they had been infrequent and unreliable. More recently, the number of incursions had increased, and an ambush of one of the royal tax collectors had finally caught the King's ear. He'd exasperatedly sent the Musketeers out to deal with the matter, unhappy about having his attention taken away from the Dauphin.

Some messages had suggested a band of five men, others had reported up to ten. Aramis estimated at least fifteen men galloping towards the village, armed and armored far better than any common bandits would have been. They rode like soldiers, disciplined and deadly.

"Aramis! Find a vantage point and provide cover," Athos shouted at him. D'Artagnan tossed his musket to the marksman before he sped off to engage the attackers. Aramis hesitated for a second before nodding and racing back into the inn. High ground was where Aramis often found himself, as it made the best use of his formidable skills, but he also understood that Athos was trying to shield him from direct contact with the enemy for as long possible. Determined to be useful and to keep his brothers safe once more, Aramis ran past the startled innkeeper, up the stairs and barged into one of the rooms facing the street. It had two windows that were just large enough so he could wedge his body into them. The windows receded into the stone walls and were set above a sloped overhang, providing him a small measure of protection as he leaned out over the ledge, arquebus up and ready.

Sixteen against three on the ground and one marksman up above were very poor odds, even for them. Aramis continuously fired and reloaded the two muskets, trying to lose himself in the soothing weight and recoil of his favorite weapons. It soon became clear to him, however, that he and his guns did not have the same unspoken understanding that they once had. From his perch, he could see that his brothers were slowly losing the fight, too spread out and overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Out of ammunition and frustrated by his lack of success, Aramis lay the long firearms on the floor and slid out the window. Bullets riddled the roof as he skidded down the loose shingles in a semi-controlled slide, and he threw up an arm to protect his eyes as splinters exploded around him. Aramis pulled out one pistol and fired blindly in the direction of the volley as he went over the edge of the roof. The marksman somehow managed to land on his feet, grimacing as his joints protested the jarring impact.

Almost before he could straighten up, two men converged on him. Aramis drew his sword in a wide sweeping motion, forcing the attackers away as he moved back, leaving as little space as he could between himself and the wall of the inn without becoming trapped. A nervous thrill rushed through him as he blocked the simultaneous attacks. His fight in the forest against the arms dealers had been sloppy and desperate, fueled by his need to protect the children and helped by the fact that those mercenaries had been poorly trained and that he knew the lay of the land far better than they did. Here, on even footing with men that had presumably been military-trained, Aramis found that there was no advantage to be had.

His days at the monastery had been occupied by more than just prayer. The abbé had frequently seen fit to engage Aramis in hard labor, having him plow and plant and repair and build everything that the older brothers could not manage as easily. Despite the physical activity, it was not the same as training and sparring. His muscles still remembered the forms and movements, but they were slower and stiffer than they used to be. Before long, Aramis found himself staggering before his opponents' advances, slowly overwhelmed by their onslaught.

"Aramis!" Athos' voice suddenly cut through the din and caught his ear. Grabbing the end of his blade with his gloved hand, Aramis shoved his two enemies backwards, buying himself a tiny bit of space and time. Looking around frantically, Aramis spied Athos grappling with three men. "D'Artagnan! Get to him!" There was a desperate note to the captain's voice that Aramis rarely heard.

The moment of distraction proved to be costly as one man swung at Aramis' neck while the other hacked at his legs. Aramis instinctively turned and lifted his right arm, allowing the pauldron on his shoulder to deflect the strike to his throat. The blow to his legs went through his low sweeping parry and sliced through his leather boot, biting sharply into the muscle of his calf. Growling with pain and fury, Aramis lashed out wildly with his sword and then burst away from his attackers. He needed to find D'Artagnan.

It didn't take very long. The youngest of their group, who'd always had an immense amount of talent as a swordsman, had forged his potential into true craft in the crucible of war. Aramis could easily measure the improvement in D'Artagnan's skill since the last time they'd sparred, and he was very impressed. However, holding off four men at once was a difficult feat, even for one with the Gascon's prowess. Two bodies lay limp on the ground, with two enemy soldiers still on their feet. The remaining attackers had D'Artagnan pressed against a wall, and they harried him, coordinating their attacks to effectively keep him off balance. Even from a distance, Aramis could see a large, dark patch staining the leg of the Gascon's leather breeches.

Aramis rushed towards D'Artagnan's position, pulling out his remaining pistol as he went. He had one shot left, and he lifted his firearm and took aim even as he sprinted forward. As one Spanish soldier lifted his arm and readied to strike, Aramis realized with a sinking heart that it would be impossible to reach his friend in time. In the back of his mind, he could hear someone screaming at him to shoot. He didn't know if it was Athos, Porthos, or his own conscience, but he obeyed and pulled the trigger. It was a shot he had made countless times before. It was something that he depended on, and perhaps took for granted.

The lead ball struck the stone wall next to his target.

He missed the shot.

 _He missed._

Aramis' eyes widened with helpless horror and disbelief as the enemy soldier slammed the pommel of his sword against D'Artagnan's head. The Gascon's knees folded beneath him and the man that struck him caught D'Artagnan under his arms before he could hit the ground. The two soldiers began to drag the unconscious young man towards their waiting horses, and Aramis darted towards them, furiously and uselessly shouting at the men to stop.

From one stride to the next, his injured leg unexpectedly collapsed beneath him and Aramis tumbled gracelessly to his knees. Even as he scrambled back to his feet, he knew it was too late. Aramis watched powerlessly as the deserters tossed his friend on one of the horses and galloped away from the village. The rest of the soldiers, upon seeing two of their comrades retreat, pulled out from their own battles and followed suit, carrying food and supplies and anything else they had managed to steal. Aramis stood stock still for one brief moment as he watched the exodus, chest heaving as he tried to decide what to do.

 _D'Artagnan needs help,_ Aramis thought desperately, his mind swimming with sickening guilt and dread. _I need to help him. I need to get him back. I am going to get him back._

Limping hastily towards the stables, Aramis didn't notice Porthos chasing after him and calling his name until the big man grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him backwards.

"Where do you think you're going? Where's D'Artagnan?" Porthos demanded fiercely, spinning the marksman around to face him. His grip on Aramis' arm was painfully tight.

Aramis had trouble meeting his friend's gaze. Instead, his eyes roved over Porthos from the neck down, unconsciously searching for wounds and other hurts. He spotted a slice in the leather doublet over Porthos' left arm, but no blood. "They took him," he murmured. "I...it's my fault. I shouldn't have missed, but I did."

"You're not making any sense," Porthos rumbled. "What did you miss?"

"My shot. I missed the soldier. If I hadn't..." Aramis trailed off as Porthos growled loudly. His expression was dark as he began to walk, pulling the marksman along with him.

"I don't understand what you're saying, but Athos needs your help."

"What is it you don't understand?" Aramis protested. He wrenched his arm out of Porthos' strong grip. "They took D'Artagnan. I need to go after him." He turned and took two steps before his progress was interrupted by a large, angry Musketeer.

"No," Porthos spat back. "What you need to do is help Athos. He's hurt."

At Porthos' words, Aramis' determined resistance died. "Where is he?"

The big man silently led Aramis over to where Athos was sitting, leaning heavily against a trough. A nasty bruise decorated his forehead, and a small cut in the center of the purple blemish was the source of the blood that sheeted down the side of his pale face. Aramis crouched in front of the dazed swordsman.

"Athos? Are you with me?"

"D'Artagnan?" Confusion clouded the swordsman's eyes before being blinked away.

"No, Athos. It's Aramis." He shoved back the hurt that unexpectedly flared up. Once upon a time, his name was the first on his brother's lips when they suffered an illness or injury.

"What? Oh. Aramis," Athos breathed. "What happened?"

"I don't know, but whatever it was has left an impressive bump on your head," Aramis said, his hands gently probing the gash. "Is there anything else I need to know about?"

Athos vaguely gestured towards his side, and Aramis ran his hands lightly down Athos' torso. He recoiled when his fingers hit a wet patch. "Damn black leather," he muttered. It was impossible to see blood on the material unless one knew to look for it.

Hurriedly undoing the front of Athos' doublet, Aramis found a long wound sliced into the skin above his friend's hip. It wasn't terribly deep, but still seeped sluggishly. The side of Athos' shirt was almost entirely dyed red, suggesting that it had been bleeding for a while.

"This requires needlework," Aramis murmured to himself. He took a deep breath and looked up at Porthos. Dark, unreadable eyes stared back at him. "Can you help me get him inside?"

Porthos nodded wordlessly and between the two of them, they hefted a dizzy Athos to his feet. Aramis and Porthos mostly dragged the Musketeer captain back towards the inn, as Athos' feet were too uncoordinated to be truly helpful. Aramis hid a grimace as they struggled up the narrow staircase, each step pulling painfully at the wound on his leg. They carefully lay Athos down on the narrow, hard bed in one of the rooms, and the swordsman squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing heavily to keep from throwing up. Porthos leaned against the wall and stared down at Aramis, who was inspecting the gash anxiously.

"Is it bad?"

"I don't think so. If it remains clean it should heal well. The bigger concerns are the head wound and blood loss." Aramis lit a candle and requested that Athos hand over the small flask of wine Aramis knew the swordsman still carried, preferring to save his own spirits for emergencies. Aramis prayed that he had not also lost his skill in doctoring wounds. Stitching flesh was something that had been rarely required of him at the abbey; the items that had most frequently met his needle had been robe seams and worn socks.

Porthos sighed as he watched Aramis began his preparations to treat Athos, the motions as familiar to him as they were to the marksman. "Explain to me again exactly what happened."

The marksman felt his face heat up but he kept his focus trained on the task at hand. _He's going to get one of us killed._ Porthos' previous words came back to taunt him. Aramis poured wine over the weeping gash and rubbed a soothing hand over his brother's arm when he felt Athos tense under his touch. Aramis held one of his needles to the candle flame until it became red hot, and once cooled pulled a length of clean silk thread through the eye. Taking a deep breath, he began to work, and to his infinite relief, his fingers still remembered how to sew up skin. "There isn't much to explain. I tried to eliminate one of D'Artagnan's attackers and I failed. He's in their hands now because of it," he said with a steadiness he did not feel.

There was a long moment of silence and the marksman could feel both his friends' eyes on him. "If these men are indeed Spanish deserters, my best guess is that they will be riding for the border," Athos finally croaked, his words slightly slurred. "It is possible that they will try and use D'Artagnan as leverage to gain clemency. They will have recognized that he is a Musketeer."

"Damn it, Aramis," Porthos swore. He ran a hand down his face with a sigh. "I'm going after D'Artagnan."

"You can't go by yourself," Athos objected. "Too dangerous."

Aramis' hands briefly stilled. "I'll join you after I take care of Athos," he said quietly to Porthos.

"No, you won't. You'll stay right here and look after him," Porthos countered fiercely. "Do _not_ follow me, Aramis. I'll handle this myself." The big man rushed out of the room, ignoring Athos' call to wait.

Tamping down on his guilt and frustration, Aramis quickly tied off the thread and moved to the clotted gash on Athos' forehead. If Porthos couldn't catch up to D'Artagnan and the deserters before they reached Spain, then he would be riding into enemy territory alone and without support. Chances of a successful rescue would fade. The possibility that Porthos and D'Artagnan would never return would be high. Even if Porthos did catch up with them, it would be one man against an unknown number. A sick, heavy feeling settled into his chest.

"I need to go after them," Aramis said, helping Athos to sit up against the wall once he was finished. The marksman firmly tied a clean bandage around Athos to protect the sewn wound on his side. It was a decision that tore at his heart, but Athos would be safe here as long as he had someone to look after him. The deserters had no reason to come back. "Porthos will need help."

"We will both go," Athos replied as he clumsily attempted to swing his feet around to the floor.

"No, absolutely not. Riding will aggravate that wound, and I'm not entirely certain you'd be able to stay on a horse. Speed is of the essence." He finally lifted his head and met his friend's disoriented gaze. "I can do this, Athos. I will ensure their safe return, you have my word."

Athos stared back for a beat or two, his eyes narrowed as if weighing Aramis' worthiness for such an important task. The marksman forced himself to hold firm under Athos' scrutiny rather than wilting with shame. After a few more unbearable moments, Athos finally sighed. "Go."

Aramis brushed his fingers against the captain's arm in gratitude and apology and then he straightened. "I'm sorry to leave you here, mon ami. I will have the innkeeper look in on you and find out if there is a local healer."

Athos snorted humorlessly. "Considering the man's disposition, I might be better off left alone." As Aramis walked out the door, he called out again. "And take care of your leg. I can see you limping."

The marksman gave a small nod. "I will bring them back," he promised.

* * *

 _There is a very short scene towards the end of S3E1 in which Aramis fires his arquebus at the enemy during the fight in the woods. He closes his eyes as he pulls the trigger and misses his shot. And lo, a fic was born!_

 _I know I've already written about this particular time point in the series, but I guess I'm not done with the topic just yet. This will likely not be very long, just a short little adventure._ _Hope you enjoy, thanks for reading!_

 _Disclaimer: Don't own, no money being made, just for fun._


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos bent over his horse's neck, urging her to move faster despite the uneven footing. The men that had taken D'Artagnan had a considerable lead over him, and he was determined to make up as much ground as possible. The trail had become narrow and was once again edged by thick woods which made travel difficult, but Porthos was counting on the fact that one man would move far faster than a large group.

His heart thumped with anger as he rode. The vast majority of his rage was directed at Aramis, and if Porthos was honest with himself, it was an extension of the resentment that had been simmering for quite some time. The first time they went to Douai, Porthos had been so certain that Aramis would rejoin them that they'd brought Bijou along for the journey. After all, they were preparing to go to _war._

"I can't, mes amis." They'd danced around the subject long enough, and it had ended with Aramis' resistance.

"What do you mean, you can't? All you need to do is get out of that tablecloth you're wearing and get on your horse." Porthos had been confused. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that his brother would refuse. If anyone truly understood the need for trustworthy comrades in battle, it would be Aramis, who was the most seasoned of them all.

A pained look had crossed Aramis' face as he bowed his head, hands on planted on his hips. The four of them stood in the monastery courtyard; three men in armor and one in a monk's robe. Porthos had thought Aramis looked uncomfortable and very odd. Like a wolf pretending to be a sheep. "Porthos, I can't leave with you," he said gently. "I made a promise to God, and I must see it through. What sort of man would I be if I broke my vows so easily?"

"We don't ask this of you lightly," Athos interjected. "You could return here, after the war is over."

Aramis shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not possible. I can't uphold my word only when it is convenient to do so."

Porthos snorted. "You think living on the front lines will be convenient?"

"No. But it would become an excuse for evading my vows. If I don't do this now, I never will."

The disbelief had begun to morph into indignation in the face of Aramis' steadfast rejection. "An excuse? You do understand that we're not asking you to join us on a message delivery? We're going into battle. If you don't come, this may be the last time you ever see us. Is that alright with you?"

"Of course not!" The words had exploded out of Aramis, agonized and pleading. "But this is the price I agreed to pay. Penance requires sacrifice, Porthos, and I have chosen to sacrifice my life as a Musketeer."

"Sacrificed the lives your brothers, you mean," Porthos sneered.

"No, not that. Never that," Aramis murmured. He looked up at his three brothers, drinking them in, and Porthos could plainly see misery and regret swimming in his eyes. "You will keep each other safe. I know it. I will pray for it."

"We don't need your prayers. We need you, Aramis. We need you at our backs." D'Artagnan's argument had been quiet and straightforward, but perhaps the most effective. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a familiar gesture, one that suggested Aramis was close to the end of his rope. He had turned his back on them, and when he spoke his voice was clogged with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry. You are asking me for something that is no longer mine to give." He had asked them to leave, then. Athos and D'Artagnan had said their goodbyes, embracing their wayward brother firmly and promising to return one day. Porthos had simply walked out of the monastery gates.

The anger that had burst into flames that day had sustained him through the darkest of days, had fueled him through moments when everything had seemed bleak and hopeless. He supposed that in a strange way, Aramis had helped to keep him alive after all, but it wasn't enough. It had taken Porthos four years to bury the hurt of that rejection in the back of his mind, and the sight of Aramis in the monastery cellar had brought it all rushing back. He was incensed that a short scrap with the Spanish and the smuggler's men was all it had taken to convince Aramis to abandon his vow.

Aside from his tightly held grudge, he'd known Aramis wasn't ready. Porthos should have pushed back harder, should have argued louder. Aramis had no business riding out on missions with them yet, certainly not on ones that practically promised danger. He didn't deny that the marksman had once been a fine soldier, one of the very best to serve France. But four years was a long time. Aramis had obviously retained his thirst for excitement, but it was clear from their few sparring sessions that he had not maintained the sharpness of his skills. He supposed that Aramis was currently no worse than an average soldier, but Musketeers were not average soldiers. And Aramis had not been an average Musketeer.

The trail that Porthos had been following suddenly split and he pulled up sharply. Darkness had fallen rapidly under the canopy of trees, and he couldn't afford to fall behind or go the wrong way. He dismounted and walked along the fork on foot, carefully scanning the ground for signs of human passage. The season had been very dry, and the hard, packed trail offered very little information. Sighing, Porthos rubbed a hand over his eyes. There was too much at stake to make a hasty decision, but he was also keenly aware of each second that was slipping by.

Making his way back to his patient horse, Porthos' sharp ears picked up the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Crouching in the brush and wishing he had time to hide his mount, Porthos quietly pulled his pistol. In the half-shadows of twilight, it was difficult to distinguish any details, but it was clear that a lone figure was bearing down on his position. Exhaling silently, Porthos raised his gun and pointed the barrel straight at the rider's chest as he slowed.

"Porthos? Are you there?"

Surprise loosened his finger on the trigger. He lowered his pistol as he sagged forward. How on earth had he failed to recognize Aramis' silhouette? Or that damn hat?

"What the hell are you doing here? I told you not to follow me," Porthos hissed as he clambered back to his feet.

Aramis brought his faithful horse to a stop. Unlike her favorite rider, Bijou had been pressed into service during the war, but had fortunately survived the experience. The reunion between the marksman and his horse had been considerably warmer than the one with Porthos.

"You did," Aramis agreed quietly. "But you need support, and I'm the only one available to give it to you."

"You left Athos by himself?" The accusation in the big man's voice was clear as he considered Aramis, his arms crossed. The other man lifted his chin in defiance.

"I left him in good hands. There was on old herbalist in the village that knows her trade well." Aramis had been subjected to the sharp end of the woman's tongue when he'd questioned her knowledge. He sighed as he looked down, pulling the brim of his hat over his eyes. "I understand you don't want me here, but I will not sit idly by while you put yourself in danger because of my mistakes. We both know this situation is my fault."

There was a stubborn note in Aramis' voice that was unfortunately very familiar to Porthos. The big man huffed with annoyance as he remounted but didn't refute Aramis' words. _You seemed willing enough to do just that four years ago. And now I have to worry about watching your back as well as my own,_ he thought sourly at the marksman. As there wasn't much he could do about Aramis' presence at the moment other than to endure it, he set aside his irritation and surveyed the two paths before him.

Aramis pulled up alongside him and studied the fork in the trail. "Shall we split up?"

"No," Porthos said reflexively. He might have considered it if his companion had been Athos or D'Artagnan.

"Why not?"

 _Because I don't trust you to keep yourself out of trouble._ Porthos squinted, his focus shifting to forest around him. He could see stones that appeared to have been displaced and a couple of broken branches along the side of the trail that headed northwest. They were the best signs he could find. "We'll go that way," he said as he nudged his horse forward. Porthos didn't bother to check whether Aramis followed, but he could hear a second set of hoofbeats pounding the dirt behind him.

They rode on wordlessly through growing darkness, pressing on despite the increasingly hazardous footing below. The edges of the trail began to slope steeply as the landscape became hillier and rockier. The path itself was rough and uneven, pocked by large divots and stones that slipped loose with each step. Eventually, Porthos was forced to slow for the sake of his horse. They crested a small cliff that looked down into a shallow, heavily wooded valley, and finally, Porthos saw what he was looking for. He breathed a sigh of relief; too much further and they would have been on the wrong side of the border.

"Do you think that's them?" Aramis pulled up alongside him, eyes fixed on the tiny glowing dots of fire in a modest clearing, near what appeared to be a crumbling old building. The camp was larger than Porthos had expected.

"Don't know who else it would be," Porthos said brusquely.

"How do you want to approach this?" Bijou stepped nervously under Aramis, as if displaying the anxiety that her rider refused to show.

"You stay here. I'm going to go get D'Artagnan."

Aramis exhaled softly. "I'm not going to let you go in alone."

" _Let_ me? I'm not asking for your permission." The anger that always seemed so close to the surface bubbled up and spilled over.

"I know you're not. But I'm here, and I can help. Please, Porthos. Give me a chance to set things right." Remorse colored Aramis' voice, but Porthos could hear the determination beneath it. It was so familiar, and Porthos would have given anything to have Aramis' fortitude bolstering him during the war. Now, the stubbornness just riled his temper.

"This mission was your chance," Porthos seethed. "And what have you done with it? You allowed D'Artagnan to be captured and then you abandoned Athos when he was hurt and needed you." The words bubbled up like poison, fed by his fear for D'Artagnan and years of suppressed bitterness. Even as they spilled from his lips, Porthos instantly regretted their unnecessary cruelty, but it was too late to stop them. They hurled towards Aramis like sharpened daggers, and even though the marksman didn't physically react, Porthos knew that they still found their target.

"I'm sorry." Silence reigned as tension hung heavy in the air between them. "Perhaps this was a mistake," Aramis murmured resignedly. Porthos didn't know exactly what the marksman was referring to, but somehow it didn't matter much. The sudden surrender made him more livid than anything else.

"Perhaps it was," Porthos snapped. "Stay. Here."

Porthos kicked at his mount and thundered recklessly down the sloping path, leaving Aramis behind. Underneath the aggravation, something else was percolating, and it felt a bit like disappointment. Porthos was aware that he'd changed in Aramis' absence, and he wasn't certain that it was for the better.

* * *

 _Hi all! Thanks so much for the comments and interest, it is very much appreciated._

 _I just wanted to clarify a point that seems to have caused a bit of confusion - I do realize that Aramis has missed shots before the moment I mentioned in the previous chapter, which...of course! No one has a 100% success rate, not even our amazing marksman. :) And I also realize that he made other shots just fine in the episode. To me, the most important part of that particular scene was the fact that he turns his head away from the target and closes his eyes while firing, which seemed like a big no-no, the sort of mistake a rookie would make (but who knows, I've never fired a gun). So yes, while this particular story hinges on another missed shot, it will hopefully focus more on how difficult it must have been to return to a physically demanding, high stakes, life-or-death job after a four year absence, and where Aramis now fits within this new group dynamic._ _IMHO, the relationships between the four men in S3 never recaptured the vibe of the first two seasons, especially where Aramis was concerned. This is my way of coping and trying to figure out why. :) Hope that helps! (Sorry this A/N is practically longer than the chapter itself.)_

 _Thank you for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Warning: Some graphic violence ahead._

* * *

The overcast, moonless sky worked in his favor as Porthos neared the camp. His approach was shrouded in the pitch-black of night as he dismounted and carefully crept closer on foot, positioning himself in a small gully to the south of the enemy camp site.

He counted three men around the closest of bright fires, and he could see another two shadows moving about beyond the glow of the flames. The space behind the decaying structure by which the soldiers were ensconced remained a mystery to him, as the flickering light did not penetrate that far. His cursory search did not reveal D'Artagnan's whereabouts, but the unfamiliar language the men spoke assured Porthos that this was very likely the same group that had attacked them.

His intention had been to sneak around the perimeter of the camp in order to obtain a better understanding of the layout and number of men before he took any decisive action. Porthos did not get very far before his plans were undone by two scouts that stumbled upon him nearly by accident. Their eyes widened with shock when they saw him. Clearly, they hadn't been expecting to find anyone during their patrol.

" _Who are you? What are you doing here?"_ one of the scouts demanded loudly. Porthos frowned. He couldn't really understand what the man was saying. It wasn't the first time he wished he'd paid more attention when Aramis used Spanish. Rather than responding verbally, Porthos drew his schianova and chopped it through the man's neck. Body and head fell separately, silent and bloody. The other scout, a skinny young man with stringy hair and a patchy beard, stared in horror at his partner's decapitated corpse before taking off in an uncontrolled sprint.

" _We're under attack!"_ the young Spanish soldier screamed. " _They've followed us, we're - "_ Whatever else he was going to say was lost in a gurgle of blood as Porthos' main gauche found the scout's back, but it was too late. The camp had been roused, and the big Musketeer could hear the sounds of men shouting and the slick metal whisper of weapons being drawn. Rather than mourning the loss of his only advantage, Porthos bared his teeth in a fierce snarl. He relished the opportunity to take out his frustrations on those who deserved it.

With a roar, Porthos charged to meet the three Spanish soldiers that ran at him. They attacked with the desperation of men who had everything at stake, and Porthos found himself pushed back away from the edge of the camp and away from the fire light. Despite their deserter status, the three Spaniards were disciplined and coordinated, and fought with the kind of unspoken understanding that could only be built with years of trust and familiarity. Porthos could tell that these men were occupying his attention while the others made off with their precious prize, and his desperation to reach D'Artagnan before he was whisked away once more grew deeper. A sweeping pass with his sword cleared away two blades that tested him, but the third found its way under the swing and knicked his leading leg, forcing him to take another step back. Porthos barely felt it in his battle rage, but the knowledge that his enemies were succeeding in their goal infuriated him.

A sudden volley of gunfire echoed sharply through the night, and one of the three men harrying Porthos fell as a musket ball tore through his chest. The distraction allowed Porthos to take out another with a vicious stab.

"Porthos! I'll cover, find D'Artagnan." Aramis' familiar voice cut through the din of battle and Porthos swore furiously under his breath.

"Don't you ever listen?" he fumed, hacking at the remaining deserter with all his might. Porthos knocked the other man's weapon out of his hand and then charged at the unarmed man. A swift punch to the ribs and another to the temple dropped the soldier to the ground. Taking advantage of the brief distraction that Aramis provided, however unwelcome it was, Porthos raced back towards the center of the camp, his eyes rapidly scanning the area for any sign of the missing Gascon. D'Artagnan was nowhere to be found, but Porthos caught sight of Aramis on the western edge of the small clearing, swiping at two men that were trying to pull him off of Bijou's back. A broad stroke with his sword caught one man in the arm and the other across the chest. Both staggered away, giving Aramis time and leverage to deal with them properly.

Tearing his eyes away from the marksman, Porthos ran towards the structure and discovered D'Artagnan behind worn stone pillars, being dragged away by two soldiers. The young man struggled against the tight grip around his arms, but with his ankles and wrists tightly roped together, he was accomplishing very little in his fight for release. Porthos pulled his gun and sprinted towards the trio, firing as he called out to his friend.

One of the Spaniards stumbled as Porthos' shot hit him high on the shoulder, nearly dragging D'Artagnan down with him. The big Musketeer slammed into the other's back, and they went down in a heap of tangled limbs, dragging the Gascon with them.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos shouted, wrapping an arm tightly around the deserter's neck. He pulled with all his might, cutting off his opponent's air supply. The soldier that Porthos shot rolled away and onto his back with a groan, fumbling for his pistol. The big Musketeer's eyes flicked towards his friend, who was still struggling to right himself after being thrown to the dirt. Porthos' gun was currently crushed underneath his own weight, unreachable.

A multitude of options raced through his mind in a moment, but before he was forced to make a decision, Aramis rode out of the shadows, pistol in hand. He fired at the downed soldier from close range, ensuring that his lead ball would see the man dead. Satisfied with his work, Aramis re-holstered his weapon and leaned over Bijou's neck, reaching towards them.

"Porthos!" Aramis called urgently, gesturing to him. "Quickly, give D'Artagnan to me. There are too many of them, we need to go."

With a grunt, Porthos finally crushed his enemy's airway and felt the man slump in his grasp. Without a word, he clambered to his feet and grabbed a hold of the struggling Gascon.

"D'Artagnan? Are you with me?" Porthos asked as he hauled his friend upright.

"Yes," D'Artagnan gasped. "I'm here." Blood painted the side of his face in wide, garish rivulets. Even in the dim, flickering light from the distant campfire, Porthos could see that D'Artagnan's gaze was a bit unfocused. A bloodstained rag was tied around his thigh.

"Good." Porthos took his schianova and quickly sliced through the ropes that bound the other man's hands and ankles together. D'Artagnan eyed the large blade with dazed skepticism.

"Not that I'm ungrateful, but would your dagger not have sufficed?" he asked.

Porthos raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Did you want to wait for me to retrieve it? It's buried in someone's back at the moment."

"Oh. No, this is fine, thank you." He rubbed at his abraded wrists as Porthos pulled him forward, supporting him when it became clear that D'Artagnan's steps were unsteady. His leg gave out from underneath him as they reached Aramis, who was waiting anxiously.

"I've got him," Porthos said possessively. After surviving years of exhausting violence and deprivation together, Porthos was reluctant to give his brother up to anyone. Even to Aramis.

"Athos?" The Gascon squinted at the figure on horseback.

The marksman shook his head. "No, D'Artagnan. It's Aramis," he informed the confused young man. "Porthos, please. I'm lighter, and Bijou is faster than your horse." Blanche had been retired while Aramis was away, and he did not recognize Porthos' new mount. It was yet another strange, unfamiliar thing. "Let me take him. I will keep him safe, I promise." Aramis' dark eyes held Porthos' own with earnest commitment. "Porthos, please. We need to leave. I can't care for D'Artagnan here."

With a frustrated sigh, Porthos helped to lift the younger man up as the marksman hauled him up onto Bijou's back with a grunt.

"How are you, mon ami?" Porthos heard Aramis quietly question the wounded Musketeer once he was settled.

"Feel a bit sick," D'Artagnan replied. He then promptly leaned over Bijou's withers and heaved, but his roiling stomach refused to give up anything. "Where's Athos?"

"He's safe," Aramis reassured evenly.

More shouts echoed in the night even as Aramis gently pulled D'Artagnan back against his chest. Porthos glanced around him; despite the casualties on the night, quite a few Spanish soliders were still on their feet. There were definitely more men than he had anticipated. It was obvious that the group that had descended upon the village had only been a partial contingent.

"Porthos?" The marksman turned his name into an insistent warning.

"Go!" The big man slapped a hand against the horse's flank and she leapt away, fleet despite the weight of two riders on her back. Porthos raced towards the edge of the camp where he found his own mount patiently waiting for him. He hoisted himself onto her back in one smooth motion and set off with haste, rushing after Aramis and D'Artagnan.

The two horses galloped along the trail through the dark, riding with dangerous speed over the treacherous terrain. Porthos stayed behind the other two Musketeers, his heart thumping in time with the rapid beat of their horses' hooves. They were moving too quickly over the unsafe trail, and yet not quickly enough to suit Porthos' rush to get away. Angry cries sounded behind them and when Porthos looked over his shoulder, he spied torch light bobbing in the distance. The deserters were mounting a pursuit. Porthos swore under his breath and pushed his mount to go even faster. Aramis glanced back as well, unconsciously slowing down to a less frantic tempo to accommodate the unstable, rocky ground. Porthos waved his hand forward, indicating that he should ride on.

"Keep going! Don't slow down!" Porthos shouted. The brim of the markman's hat shadowed his face, hiding his expression. It was a long moment before Aramis gave him a short nod and turned back around, clutching tightly at D'Artagnan as he sped up and continued.

It didn't take long before their reckless pace took a toll. Bijou suddenly stumbled as her legs slipped out from underneath her, her stride undone by the precarious footing and the extra unfamiliar weight on her back. Letting out a startled whinny, the horse wrenched herself sideways and managed to keep from going down completely, but the unexpected, jarring motion left Aramis unbalanced. He and D'Artagnan were unseated and they tumbled to the ground, hitting hard and skidding to the edge of the trail. Porthos' own mount unsteadily danced sideways to avoid the other horse and he jumped off before she could go down.

"D'Artagnan? Aramis?" Porthos shouted as he ran and slid to a stop next to the two downed Musketeers.

Aramis pushed himself to his elbows with a groan. "I'm fine," he wheezed, reaching for the Gascon. "D'Artagnan, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

The younger man moaned in response, one hand going towards his injured leg. "Yes, I think so."

Aramis crawled towards his downed friend and ran his hands up D'Artagnan's torso and then his limbs, seeking out any obvious damage without the aid of light. He winced in sympathy when he found the bandage around his friend's leg had become wet again and put pressure on the wound underneath. He murmured a quiet apology at D'Artagnan's surprised yelp of pain. "Porthos, we cannot outrun them," Aramis pointed out. "Even if we didn't get caught, we would be leading them straight back to the village."

Porthos swore under his breath. Although his first instinct was to contradict Aramis, he had to admit that the marksman was correct. It was possible they might escape the band of deserters chasing them, but it would be risky. And he could not in good faith bring danger back down upon innocent people.

"We need to make a stand," Porthos concluded stiffly. They currently held high ground, which gave them an advantage. He could only hope that it would be enough, with one wounded Musketeer and another that was...rusty, to put it kindly.

Aramis nodded in agreement. "Ambush. This is good territory for one."

Porthos sighed as he stood up. "What do you think, D'Artagnan?"

"I agree," the young Gascon said, pushing Aramis' hands away. Adrenaline cleared his eyes and steadied his voice. "We need to fight."

"You should stay off your leg," Aramis protested. "Porthos and I can deal with this."

"No, absolutely not," D'Artagnan snapped, understandably cranky from pain and the prospect of impending danger. "I can do this." He clumsily got to his feet with the help of his two friends.

"I know you can," Porthos said, briefly pressing his forehead to the Gascon's in solidarity. He'd seen their youngest Musketeer fight through worse adversity. "D'Artagnan, you're with me." He retrieved his weapons from his saddle and turned to Aramis, who was standing off to the side with his hands on his hips. "Aramis. Find a perch for yourself," Porthos said, tossing his arquebus and cartridges to the marksman, "and for God's sake, don't miss."

* * *

 _Let's say that the italicized dialogue is Spanish translated to French (and then translated to English, lol). Thanks for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Warning: Some violence ahead._

* * *

 _Don't miss. Don't miss. Don't miss._

The words were a mantra that accompanied him as he clambered up to a small ledge that overlooked a sharp curve in the trail. His chosen spot provided a clean view of the dark figures in the distance that were slowly closing in on their position. Aramis knelt behind a small boulder, relieved to be off his aching leg. Despite Athos' admonition, he'd had no time to care for the gash in his calf beyond cleaning it and tying it off with a makeshift bandage.

 _Don't miss._ The words were a reminder that he was no longer the Musketeer he'd once been. The old Aramis would have scoffed at the suggestion that his aim was less than excellent. Aramis was not an arrogant man, but after a decade of soldiering he'd once held an unwavering confidence in his ability to kill. However, things were different now, and one of the most glaring changes was apparently within himself. A small voice reminded Aramis that he just needed more time and practice to regain his previous skill. The rest of his brain wondered whether he'd be allowed that time.

His mind had been repeatedly replaying the moment of D'Artagnan's collapse since the attack on the village, and his sickening dismay had only gotten stronger with each loop. Back at the deserter camp, when Aramis had followed Porthos against his wishes, he'd forced himself to push back his dread and his doubts, simply because he'd had no choice. Now, as the marksman silently sat and waited for their pursuers to come into range, all the what-ifs he'd been ignoring began to spin in his mind. _What if my skills don't come back? What if I've become a liability? What if I'd hit D'Artagnan instead of missing entirely?_ The last question left him cold.

Shaking off his worries, Aramis leveled his weapon at the dark figures that approached, taking aim at the rider at the head of the group. The entirety of his focus narrowed to the musket in his hands, his sight down the barrel, and his target. He breathed slowly and steadily, taking the deep thrum of pain that radiated through his chest and locking it away. Aramis had felt something snap in his shoulder when he'd fallen off Bijou's back, landing awkwardly on his left arm.

 _Don't miss. They're depending on you. Don't. Miss._

When the first soldier came into range, Aramis released his breath in a silent puff, sent up a small, quick prayer and pulled firmly on the trigger. The powerful weapon kicked in his grip, but he absorbed it, forcing the gun to submit to his control. The musket ball flew from the muzzle, whistled through the air and buried itself in the chest of his target. The shadow jerked backwards in the saddle when the ball hit him, slumping bonelessly and then dropping to the ground. His mount skipped to the side from the sudden shift in weight and bumped into another horse, forcing it off its course. In the ensuing confusion, Aramis heard two pistols fire - Porthos and D'Artagnan. Another deserter fell dead.

Setting down his own weapon, the marksman quickly replaced the spent arquebus with the one Porthos had lent him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could feel the ends of his broken collarbone unpleasantly grinding together as he lifted his left arm to support the barrel of his gun. The lack of light made for very difficult conditions, but the marksman forced himself to be still and patient, looking for another clean shot. He peered through the darkness and his eyes narrowed in satisfaction when he found one. _There._ Gently blowing out another slow breath, he pulled the trigger once more and was rewarded with another death.

Pressing his back against cold stone, Aramis ripped open his cartridges, his hands working efficiently as they primed and packed the muskets. Within seconds, they were ready to go and Aramis turned back around, taking careful aim.

Exhale. Fire.

Exhale. Fire.

Aramis silently cursed as his last shot missed, flying off into the night rather than catching flesh. Frustration gnawed at him as he quickly reloaded, but by now, the bulk of the group chasing after them had caught up and much of the fighting was on the ground, as the narrow trail and hilly terrain was not meant for maneuvering large animals. Although it eliminated the marksman's clear sightlines, Aramis was able to identify Porthos by his size and D'Artagnan by his fighting style. Firing twice into the mass of bodies, he managed to drop another enemy soldier.

A quick count suggested that at least five Spaniards were left. Determined to help even the odds, Aramis gathered up his weapons and abandoned his perch. A dim glint of metal and his sixth sense for danger were the only warnings he had before a shot was fired from the darkness by an enemy pistol. Aramis instinctively threw himself to the side, and the lead ball struck the boulder where he'd been with a small shower of sparks.

Two soldiers had climbed up to his perch in an effort to silence the sniper picking off their fellow comrades. Aramis scrambled to his feet as one of the deserters fired at him again and missed. A hissed Spanish curse cut through the air as the men charged at him, swords drawn. Aramis grabbed the muzzle of one of his muskets in haste and lifted it with a grunt of pain to block the blade that tried to come crashing down on his head. His knees nearly gave as the impact roughly jarred his injured shoulder. With feral grimace, Aramis shook away the pain, dropped the arquebus and drew his own sword. He would not let these soldiers keep him from his brothers.

" _You should have just let us go,"_ Aramis said in Spanish. " _You did not have to die tonight."_

The two Spaniards briefly froze at hearing a French Musketeer fluently snarl at them in their own language, and Aramis pressed the miniscule advantage with an aggressive attack. It was difficult to see, but the marksman knew that his two opponents would have similar issues. The ground under his feet was stable and blessedly flat, and so Aramis danced around the two deserters, trying to keep them off-balance and unable to coordinate with each other. He ignored the fire lancing up his leg with each step, keeping his steps even so as not to give away the injury. A vicious stab had one man stumbling back with a grunt, clutching at his gut with one hand. He dropped to one knee and Aramis swung down, catching the man in the throat and gruesomely slicing it open.

A cry of pain sounded from below and it cut through the din of battle to catch Aramis' ears. He instantly recognized it and his heart squeezed in response. _D'Artagnan._

The remaining soldier retreated from Aramis, his sword held warily in front of him. The man's back was to the edge of the small overhang, and it was clear that he was not aware of how close he was to the drop off. Aramis lunged in recklessly and the Spaniard withdrew another few steps. On the last one, the dry dirt and loose stone at the edge of the flat ridge crumbled beneath his weight and he lost his balance, a look of surprise and terror on his face. The man threw himself forward in an attempt to keep himself on the ledge, and his sword flashed out in a wild stab. Aramis jumped back, but the damaged muscle in his leg failed to provide the leverage needed to avoid the weapon entirely. The blade caught him under the arm and slid along his ribcage. The sharp edge of the weapon slashed through his doublet and shirt to lay open the flesh underneath. Metal scraped along bone as Aramis faltered with a gasp and a curse. He kicked out with his bad leg, knocking the teetering soldier over edge. The marksman watched as his opponent landed heavily on the rocky path and said a small prayer when the man did not get up again.

Pressing a hand tightly against his chest, Aramis bit back a groan at the sharp burst of agony that raced along his ribs. Wet warmth soaked into his glove as he hiked down from his perch. _You've suffered far worse,_ he told himself, sucking in ragged breaths _. Go help your brothers._

Aramis ran as fast he could without stumbling on his unreliable leg, hearing D'Artagnan's pained voice echoing in his ears. The clash of metal upon metal was starting to die down, and he arrived to find Porthos and D'Artagnan back to back, dueling against the last few deserters. To his profound relief, Aramis saw that D'Artagnan was on his feet, still alive. The young Gascon was clearly favoring his wounded leg, however, and Porthos instinctively moved to compensate for it. Aramis went to draw his pistol, but fear of hitting his brothers through the dark stilled his hand. He drew his sword instead and threw himself into the fight, catching one enemy soldier unaware as he silently thrust the blade through the man's back. Before long, all the deserters were dead, numerous bodies strewn at the feet of just three Musketeers.

"Nice of you to join us," Porthos said, toeing one of the bodies on the ground.

"My apologies. I was a bit...preoccupied." Aramis followed D'Artagnan, who was limping towards the edge of the path. "D'Artagnan? How do you fare?"

D'Artagnan grimaced as he lowered himself to the ground with Aramis' help. The marksman joined him, kneeling by the Gascon. "No worse than I was before. I believe I managed to avoid acquiring any new holes."

"I heard you cry out." Aramis' fingers lightly probed at the skin around the stab wound in D'Artagnan's leg, but it was simply too dark to make any sort assessment.

"I was kicked." D'Artagnan gave a small huff of amusement, despite sounding worn. "It has not been my best day." Aramis winced in sympathy. It was something they had in common.

"You alright, whelp?" Porthos joined them and stood over the two crouching men.

"I was until you called me 'whelp'," D'Artagnan groaned. "You do realize I'm now older than you were when we first met."

"So? You'll always be younger than me and that's what matters. It's funny how age works," Porthos said. He crouched down next to Aramis. "How is he?" he asked gruffly.

" _He_ is fine," D'Artagnan said indignantly.

The marksman shook his head. "I can't tell without better light. The leg wound doesn't appear to be bleeding too badly, but I won't be able to evaluate it properly until I can actually see it. The blow to the head is still a concern." Aramis tried to keep remorse from seeping into his words, but wasn't altogether certain he was successful.

Porthos pursed his lips, clearly having some silent debate within his own head. "Will he be in immediate danger if he's not treated now?" he asked, and Aramis could already see where the conversation was headed.

"I'd rather not take any risks," the marksman replied even as D'Artagnan let out an annoyed huff.

"Or you could just ask me, as I'm sitting right here. The wounds will keep," he said. "The one in my leg is not terribly deep, but it will need to be cleaned soon to prevent festering. It can go without needlework for now. As for my head, it aches but it is bearable."

Aramis startled at D'Artagnan's confident judgement and rocked back onto his heels as intense regret pierced his chest. _Of course._ His decision to stay at the abbey during the war had robbed les inséperables of their acting healer. As Porthos had been overly squeamish and Athos had lacked the patience, it had fallen on their youngest to apprentice himself to Aramis in the event that the marksman's services were unavailable. When D'Artagnan's training had begun, everyone had assumed that his newly acquired skills would only be called upon when Aramis himself was incapacitated. In hindsight, Aramis was eternally grateful that D'Artagnan had proven to be an attentive, competent student. He would not have stood for his brothers to go to war without someone he trusted to care for them. On the other hand, it pained him that D'Artagnan had been forced into such a position. It should have been his burden to bear.

Porthos nodded, having come to a decision. "We ride on, then. I want to get back to Athos; we're only a few hours away."

D'Artagnan's head snapped up in Porthos' general direction. "What exactly happened to Athos? Why isn't he here?"

"He was hurt," Porthos said quietly. D'Artagnan inhaled sharply.

"Is he..." The young Musketeer's voice trailed off.

"He's alive," Porthos said quickly, soothing D'Artagnan's worst fears. "He was well enough to be left to his own devices, apparently." Aramis could feel the stare that Porthos turned on him.

"We should go," D'Artagnan said anxiously. "Athos shouldn't be alone."

Aramis opened his mouth to object but then snapped it shut, torn between two responsibilities, two sources of guilt. He wanted to treat D'Artagnan, but he was also the one to leave a wounded Athos behind in an unfriendly environment. Aramis briefly pinched the bridge of his nose before looking up at Porthos.

"I'll do what I can for D'Artagnan now. I will have to insist that we stop if he worsens."

The big man gave a brief nod. "He can have my mount. I'm going to round up one of the Spanish horses so we don't have to ride double."

Porthos walked away and Aramis pat the Gascon on the knee. "Let's see what can be done, shall we?"

Eyes squinting with concentration in the poor light, Aramis tucked away his gnawing hurts and attended D'Artagnan's leg as well as he could. The wound was, as D'Artagnan had described, not terribly deep, but had damaged muscle and looked painful. It had likely leaked a fair amount before being hastily bound; Aramis could see the ashen cast to the Gascon's skin even in the dark. Aramis hissed as he saw the deep bruising around the half-clotted injury - it was clear to him now where his young friend had been kicked. He liberally poured alcohol over the wound to flush it out and murmured a gentle apology when D'Artagnan let out a strangled groan, rocking with pain. Aramis tightly rewrapped the leg with a clean bandage, handed over his water skin and urged the younger man to drink.

"We're done. It's bleeding again a bit but should stop soon. You will tell me immediately if it continues for more than a few minutes. Please keep in mind that I can practically smell blood. I'll know if you're keeping something from me," Aramis said with as much sternness as he could muster.

"Yes, sir," D'Artagnan mock saluted after taking a long draught. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a low murmur. "Speaking of smelling blood, you're hiding something."

Aramis grimaced but didn't deny it. "Not hiding so much as trying to pretend it doesn't exist."

D'Artagnan waved him in closer. "Let me see."

Aramis hesitated, and then began to slowly unbutton his doublet. That was new too; he missed the weight and length of his old leathers. Gingerly shrugging his right arm out of its sleeve, he could feel his shirt sticking to his skin, damp with blood.

"My God, Aramis. When did this happen?" D'Artagnan's eyes widened as he fingered the saturated cloth and lifted it to try and get a better a view of the laceration.

"I had some unwelcome visitors to my roost," Aramis said lightly. "I dispatched them and one of them left me with a parting gift."

The young Gascon tsked at him as he bent forward, nearly pressing his nose into the deep slash in an effort to determine how bad it was. Aramis resisted the urge to pull away. "It seems like it's still bleeding quite a bit. This should be stitched."

"Probably, but it can wait if you'd be so kind as to help me bind it."

D'Artagnan hummed uncertainly. "I'm not sure that will be enough."

Aramis responded with half a shrug. "It will have to be. Porthos is anxious to continue, as am I. I would not be away from Athos for longer than absolutely necessary." He was relieved when D'Artagnan did not argue.

Silence reigned as Aramis handed over a roll of clean linen and allowed the Gascon to tightly bandage his chest. To his credit, D'Artagnan did so rapidly and neatly with just the right amount of pressure, and Aramis was again impressed by his skill. At the same time, receiving the young Musketeer's care fed the doubts that had been swirling in Aramis' head since he'd returned to Paris. _Do I have anything I can offer to my friends?_ His skill as a marksman was obviously not up to his high standards, and it seemed that he'd been effectively supplanted by D'Artagnan in the role of healer. The memory of Porthos and D'Artagnan fighting back to back, nearly telepathic in their connection, flashed through his mind. _We learned to live without you,_ Porthos had said. _Is there a place for you anymore?_ his own mind asked.

He was startled out of his contemplation when D'Artagnan clasped him by the arm, and Aramis had to bite back a snarl of pain as the friendly gesture rattled his broken shoulder. "You have nothing to prove to us, Aramis," D'Artagnan said softly.

Aramis looked away, embarassed by the reassurance and yet grateful for D'Artagnan's kindness. He'd never been particularly good at hiding his thoughts from his brothers. "I'm not so sure Porthos would agree," he murmured, clearing his throat.

"Porthos is glad to have you back, he just doesn't know how to deal with it yet. Give him some time."

The marksman plastered on a small smile and nodded. "Thank you."

 _Give him time._ It was the same thing Athos had said at the monastery. But how long was he supposed to wait? It had over a week since he'd followed his brothers back. Would it take another week? A month? A year? Aramis loved all his brothers dearly but the garrison simply did not feel like home without Porthos' open friendship. It had been his guiding light through so much misfortune and hardship, and its loss cut Aramis deeply.

"Ready to go?" The man in question approached them, leading one of the horses that had previously carried a Spanish soldier. Aramis stood quickly and was forced to brace himself as vertigo tilted the ground beneath his feet. Once the world steadied, he reached down with his good arm to help up the injured Gascon. "D'Artagnan? Are you good?" Porthos asked.

"I am, but..." D'Artagnan trailed off when he saw Aramis shake his head ever so slightly. "Ah, yes."

Making his way to his beloved mount, Aramis briefly leaned against Bijou's whithers, taking comfort in her warmth and earthy scent. She thankfully appeared unharmed from her earlier stumble. "We are still partners, right?" he whispered at his favorite horse. Bijou knickered in response and Aramis smiled. Taking a slow, deep breath, Aramis climbed into his saddle, biting his lip as his vision momentarily whited out. When his sight returned to normal, he turned his horse around to find Porthos staring at him.

"You alright?" the big man asked, concern creasing is brow.

"Yes." Aramis injected as much confidence as he could into his voice. He followed as Porthos led the way, with D'Artagnan in between them, riding with haste to rejoin their fourth.

* * *

 _I took some liberties with D'Artagnan's character here, since I don't think there's much evidence on the show that he took over Aramis' healer duties. I think this might be a fandom thing more than anything else. Correct me if I'm wrong, though! Thanks for reading!_


	5. Chapter 5

D'Artagnan had no doubts that his brothers would come for him. When he'd woken up groggy and dazed in the hands of his captors, his first thought was that he needed to stay alive long enough for his friends to find him. Shaking off his mortification of having been caught in the first place and carried off like a trussed-up lamb, he'd suffered the careless treatment of his captors without a sound. It hadn't been much of a chore, if he was perfectly honest, as he'd spent most of the time drifting in and out of consciousness.

Porthos and Aramis had not disappointed him, although his relief at being found was almost immediately supplanted by worry over Athos' absence. Porthos' confession that their captain had been injured had only deepened his need to return to Athos' side and see to the wounds himself. It was a silly urge, as D'Artagnan was quite aware that Aramis would have cared for Athos as diligently and skillfully as he would have, but four years of habit were difficult to break.

They rode in single file along the narrow, hilly path. Despite his anxiety over Athos' condition, Porthos had set a much less frantic pace than before in deference to the wounds that D'Artagnan carried. The Gascon was thankful for it, not only for himself but for Aramis. He glanced back over his shoulder at the long-absent brother that had returned to him. The markman rode slowly behind D'Artagnan, his arm pressed subtly to his side. Riding a horse was not a passive activity; it required constant adjustments through the fluid contraction and release of muscle. D'Artagnan's leg throbbed with a deep burning ache, protesting the work needed to direct Porthos' horse and keep himself in the saddle. He imagined that Aramis was likely experiencing the same difficulties. His posture had none of the languid ease that D'Artagnan associated with the marksman. Rather, the former monk sat stiffly in his saddle, his head tilted down and his face a dark shadow under his hat. The young Musketeer kept his gaze on Aramis for a second longer, hoping he could catch the other man's eye and offer some encouragement, but Aramis kept himself isolated and silent.

With a sigh, D'Artagnan turned back around and found himself staring at Porthos' broad back. The rift between Porthos and Aramis was a palpable thing, winding between them like a coiled, poisonous serpent. It had been hard for all them during the early years of war, and it had been hardest of all for Porthos. D'Artagnan suspected that the man was still feeling the sting of Aramis' rejection, despite the fact that the marksman had returned to the fold. The Gascon could tell that Aramis was doing his best to ride out Porthos' temper, but his natural cheer seemed muted.

The trail was beginning to widen and even out, and so D'Artagnan pulled up on his reins, slowing down his borrowed horse. Eventually, Aramis caught up to him, and they traveled side by side.

"Aramis?" D'Artagnan said quietly. His friend's head remained down, lost in thought. "Aramis?"

The marksman's head snapped up. "D'Artagnan? Is it your leg?" The clouds that had been blanketing the night sky had finally thinned a bit, and Aramis' face glowed pale under the watery moonlight.

"No," the young Musketeer answered. "The bandages are still dry."

"Your head, then? Do you feel sick? Do we need to stop?" Aramis sounded anxious. Guilty. The young Gascon suspected he was missing something.

"No, it's fine. It aches, but no worse than how it feels on the morning after some of our more eventful evenings." It was a little white lie, but D'Artagnan thought it was worth it to see some of the tension drain from his brother's expression. "I wanted to know how you were doing."

The older Musketeer gave him a small smile. "Well, no one is trying to kill us at the moment, so I would say I'm doing fairly well."

D'Artagnan arched an eyebrow. It wasn't quite as good as Athos', and he doubted it ever would be. "That's not quite what I was asking," D'Artagnan said.

The marksman's shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. "Sorry," he said unapologetically.

The young Musketeer lowered his voice. "Has your wound stopped bleeding?"

"I...think it has."

D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed as he debated whether to believe the other man's ambiguous response. He turned Aramis' previous question around. "Do we need to stop?"

"No, please. It can't be much further. I'll be fine."

The exchange trailed off and the two rode in comfortable silence for a bit. Porthos glanced back at them, but declined to join the pair.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "How does it feel to be back in Paris?" he tried again. Along with his official duties, he'd been incredibly preoccupied with Constance since his return from the front and D'Artagnan had to admit that he hadn't spent much time with Aramis - or any of his brothers, for that matter - in the intervening days. _I hope someone has asked him much sooner than I have,_ he thought regretfully.

"It feels...strange, but good. I missed the city. Life at the monastery was quite different than in Paris."

"I'm sure it was," D'Artagnan said. "More monks, fewer women."

Aramis smiled. "Amongst other things."

"What did you do while you were there?" D'Artagnan was well-acquainted with the rhythms of a quiet country life, but after all these years he still had a difficult time imagining his vibrant, adventurous friend settling into a staid routine.

"Not very much, really. A lot of manual labor, a lot of teaching. A lot of praying, of course."

"Did you enjoy it?"

The markman hummed as he considered the question. "I don't believe a life of atonement is one to be enjoyed, but it was peaceful and I had ample time to reflect. The brothers were welcoming, and the children certainly kept me occupied."

"You told them stories about us." D'Artagnan had been tickled to learn that Aramis had been passing on the tales of their adventures to a new generation at the monastery. It had also humbled him to know that he was now an indelible part of the history of les inséparables _,_ and that perhaps one day children would look to him the way that he had looked up to these men.

"I did. The children enjoyed them quite a bit. Perhaps a bit too much, in some cases," Aramis said, giving D'Artagnan a wry grin. "It helped to keep you fresh in my mind and in my heart. It reminded me of who I had been."

"Who you are," D'Artagnan corrected. "You're a Musketeer once more."

The smile slid off of Aramis' face as he turned away from the Gascon.

"You are, Aramis," the younger man insisted.

The marksman sighed. "Perhaps in name, yes."

D'Artagnan frowned at his brother's uncharacteristic melancholy. "What is that supposed to mean? It may take - " The rest of his words were swallowed by a gasp of pain as a sharp stab of agony suddenly shot down from his skull into his neck and shoulders. He hunched forward with eyes squeezed shut and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to grind away the pulsing ache.

"D'Artagnan? D'Artagnan! What's wrong?" A firm hand gripped the back of his neck, offering a safe port in a storm of pain. "Porthos!"

A deep breath was followed by another, and the vicious throbbing began to ease. D'Artagnan peeled his eyelids back to find both of the other Musketeers flanking him, ready to catch him regardless of which way he fell. _With my luck, I'd probably tumble over the horse's rear,_ D'Artagnan thought somewhat woozily.

"Sorry, it just caught me off guard." The young Musketeer made a vague gesture towards his head. "I'm alright."

"No, you're not," Porthos growled. "We're stopping."

"No! Look, there isn't much that can be done for my head anyway," D'Artagnan protested. "We may as well keep going."

Aramis leaned over precariously in his saddle, a grimace flashing briefly across his face as he inspected D'Artagnan's injured leg. He gently ran his fingers over the bandage and nodded with satisfaction when he found it mostly dry and clean, save for a few dark spots.

"Aramis?" Porthos looked down at the marksman, who heaved a small sigh as he righted himself.

"He's right, unfortunately. Rest would help him heal more quickly, however."

"Well, I'd much rather rest in a bed, knowing that Athos is safe, than on the hard ground. Don't deny that you feel the same way," D'Artagnan said stubbornly. "How much longer?"

"Maybe an hour," Porthos said, scrubbing roughly at his hair.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to answer and then paused. He caught Aramis' eye and raised his eyebrow in a silent question. _Do you need rest?_

Aramis' mouth pressed into a thin line _. No._

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" Porthos' face was an impatient mask as he and Aramis began to pull away, confident that the Gascon would not lose his seat.

"No, you're not," Aramis replied. "Let's proceed. The sooner we return to the village, the better. I for one am eager to put this journey behind me."

Porthos muttered something under his breath, too quietly for D'Artagnan to hear. He saw Aramis duck his head, and his straining ears caught a murmured response that he couldn't quite make out. Porthos led his borrowed horse up front and continued on. Aramis waited for D'Artagnan to catch up, and then took up the rear guard once more, despite the fact that it wasn't truly necessary.

The hour passed by slowly and silently. D'Artagnan heaved an internal sigh of relief as the village came into view. As they approached, he spotted a lone figure riding out to meet them. The silhouette was unmistakeable.

"Is that Athos?"

"What does he think he's doing?" Porthos kicked his horse into a fast gallop.

"I told him not to move," Aramis said resignedly.

D'Artagnan gave Aramis a wide grin, pleased to see that his brother and captain was alive and well enough to disobey sound medical advice. "He apparently didn't hear you."

The two trailing Musketeers caught up with Athos and Porthos. Athos looked wan under the diffuse moonlight, but his eyes were clear and focused despite the dark bruising across his forehead. He gave D'Artagnan a warm smile and they drew near.

"D'Artagnan. I see you have survived your adventure."

"Same to you. I was under the impression that you were supposed to be in bed, recovering?"

"I was," Athos said. "But the charming woman that Aramis set upon me finally went home, so I took the opportunity to escape."

"She isn't that bad," Aramis said defensively.

"I beg to differ. She is terrifying."

Porthos laughed. "You're afraid of an old woman?"

Athos gave Porthos a mock glare. "Anyone in their right mind would find her frightening."

"So exactly where were you planning on going? You had no idea how far we'd gone," Porthos said. It was a bit of a foolish endeavor, and quite unlike Athos. D'Artagnan idly wondered if it was a side effect of the head injury Athos was clearly sporting. His fingers reached up to lightly prod at his own tender skull.

"I would have found you. As a matter of fact, I believe I did."

Porthos snorted. "That's just luck and good timing."

"Sometimes that is all we need," Athos replied wisely, feeling smug about his success.

The four men rode back into the village, which was calm and quiet under the blanket of night. The only light was from a small lantern that illuminated the stables, one held up by a sleepy-looking boy groom.

"Back so soon, sir?" he asked Athos as the man dismounted gingerly, favoring his wounded side.

"I am. I didn't have to travel far to find what I was looking for," he said. He handed the boy an extra coin.

D'Artagnan swung his leg around the back of Porthos' horse with a grimace and held onto the saddle to keep his balance as his stiff leg nearly buckled. Aramis was the last to file in, and he stayed on top of Bijou as the other Musketeers dismounted. D'Artagnan carefully watched as the marksman blinked heavily, staring at the ground as it was fifty feet away instead of five. D'Artagnan knew that look. It had been a while since he had seen it, but he remembered well that it signified unpleasant things to come. Aramis bent forward as if preparing to dismount, and then abruptly stopped.

"Aramis?" Athos and Porthos' heads whipped towards the former monk at D'Artagnan's alarmed tone.

"A moment, please." Aramis' voice was faint and breathless. Inhaling deeply, he gamely lowered himself from his saddle in a motion that could best be described as a controlled fall. Aramis staggered and hunched over as his feet touched the straw-covered ground. A wide, dark stain on his leathers was readily apparent in the dim lantern light.

"What the hell is that?" Porthos stormed over to the marksman as he struggled to recover his equilibrium. "When did this happen?" The big man took a firm grip of Aramis' arm and lifted it with unexpected gentleness to get a better view of the damage.

"It's nothing to fret over," Aramis said calmly, as if the pallid cast to his skin didn't belie his words. He extracted his arm from Porthos' hold. "Go help D'Artagnan. I'd like to see to his wounds immediately. We've already waited too long."

Aramis left the stable, unsteadily heading towards the inn before Porthos could respond. The large Musketeer started after him, his face a thunderous scowl.

"Porthos." Athos' sharp voice crackled through the air, demanding attention. It had its intended effect as Porthos stopped abruptly in his tracks.

"What?" Porthos snapped.

"D'Artagnan needs your assistance. I will deal with Aramis." The Gascon opened his mouth to protest and was cut off by a narrow-eyed glare from the captain.

D'Artagnan thought that Porthos would disobey, but after a tense moment, his training and respect for Athos overcame his impulses. D'Artagnan allowed his arm to be draped over Porthos' broad shoulders, and he leaned into his friend, trying to offer some reassurance.

"Don't be angry," D'Artagnan said as he slowly limped out of the barn. "I'll make sure that he's seen to properly."

"Damn fool." Porthos frowned and took a deep breath. "You shouldn't have to worry about that."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Why not?"

The big Musketeer shook his head. "He said he missed his shot. That's why you were taken in the first place."

The young Gascon squinted in confusion. "I'm not following."

"He tried to take down one of the men you were fighting and failed. Of course he did, since he's probably forgotten what it takes to make a shot like that in the middle of a fight."

"Porthos - "

"He wasn't ready! I told you he wasn't. It's bad enough he almost got you killed, but then he goes and nearly gets himself killed!"

"Porthos - "

"We never should have let him come. I knew this turn out badly, but - "

" _Porthos!_ "

"What?" the big man roared.

The two men stood in the middle of the street, staring at each other from awkward angles. D'Artagnan could see Porthos' chest heaving with frustration, felt the rough breaths on his ear. His earlier conversation with Aramis echoed through his mind and suddenly things made much more sense.

"Aramis is going to be fine. I am going to be fine. We will take care of each other, as we have always done." D'Artagnan forced his voice to remain quiet and even.

"But - "

"And," D'Artagnan continued firmly, raising his voice as he spoke over Porthos' protest, "we will also carefully watch Aramis' back until he sharpens his skills, just as he would for us. This was not his fault, Porthos. Unlucky things are bound happen in our line of work."

Porthos grumbled in response as they walked slowly towards the entrance of the inn. D'Artagnan could feel the hot resentment and hurt steaming from his friend and purposely leaned harder on Porthos, dragging his feet and taking more weight off his aching leg. "Did you feel that my inexperience was a burden, when I first joined the Musketeers?" he asked.

"What? No, of course not."

"Then why are you so reluctant to do for Aramis what you once did for me?"

"Because I shouldn't have to!" Porthos exploded. "He used to be one of the best. He still would be, if he hadn't abandoned his brothers. He'd still be one of us."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Aramis is one of us, Porthos. He always will be, no matter what he chooses to do with his life. Surely I don't need to tell you that."

The big man frowned furiously but didn't disagree, much to D'Artagnan's relief. The stress of the conversation was starting to intensify his headache. "Aramis has always had a reckless, stubborn streak. At least before, he had the skill to get himself out of trouble," Porthos said quietly, his burning anger suddenly cooled. "How can I trust him to keep himself alive? To keep us alive?"

"Give him time, Porthos. He will get there. And as his brothers, we will support him until he does so." D'Artagnan gave his friend a faint smile. "One for all?"

"All for one," Porthos muttered back. It was a terribly grumpy rendition of their motto, but D'Artagnan decided that it was better than nothing.

* * *

 _Almost done... Thanks for reading!_


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm sorry, mon ami," Aramis murmured for what seemed like the tenth time. "I'm almost done."

"It's fine, Aramis," D'Artagnan reassured him again.

Aramis was quite aware that his constant apologizing was odd, but he couldn't help the impulse. The sight of the deserter smashing the metal pommel of his sword against D'Artagnan's head continued to loop through his mind even as his needle pulled his finest thread through the edges of the gash on his friend's forehead.

The stab wound in D'Artagnan leg had thankfully not been as bad as he'd feared. The flesh around it looked angry from the abuse it had suffered, but the puncture itself appeared clean. Aramis had forced D'Artagnan to endure another debridement to be certain it remained so. After sewing and bandaging the wound, he'd turned his attention to his friend's head. Upon gently washing away the dried blood, Aramis had discovered a short, deep laceration with ugly, jagged edges amongst the purple bruises on D'Artagnan's face. The sight of it had drawn a whistle from Porthos and a frown from Aramis. He'd insisted on stitching it closed. "For Constance's sake, if nothing else," Aramis had reasoned. He meticulously placed stitches that were as small and neat as he could possibly manage, forcing his shaking fingers steady. He was determined that this would be one thing on this mission that he would do perfectly.

Pulling the needle through skin one last time, Aramis tied off the thread and snipped off the loose ends. "Finished," he announced quietly, wiping away the reminaing specks of blood and wrapping a length of clean linen around the Gascon's head. "How is the pain?"

"Not bad at all," D'Artagnan said.

Aramis hummed skeptically. "I believe I have some willowbark in one of my pouches," he said. "Some tea will help. Athos? Do you need some?" He moved to stand from his seat on the bed but stopped when D'Artagnan's hand shot out and grabbed onto his wrist.

"If you are done, what I need is for you to let D'Artagnan to examine your side," Athos said firmly.

"D'Artagnan should be resting. I will see to it myself." The angle of the cut on his ribs would make it difficult, but Aramis was certain he could manage.

"You will do no such thing," Athos countered even as D'Artagnan began to unfasten Aramis' doublet. The mattress dipped as Athos sat by him and the captain snagged Aramis' hands as they tried to brush off D'Artagnan's interference. Concerned blue eyes looked into his own. "Do not fight us on this, brother."

 _Brother._ Aramis could tell that exhaustion was beginning to affect him. There was no other reason as to why such a simple request would cause his eyes to sting. After a moment, he blinked heavily and relented, allowing tense muscles to relax. There were incessant tremors running through his muscles, but couldn't dredge up the energy to stop them. Aramis allowed D'Artagnan to remove his belts and his leathers. He was keenly aware of Porthos' dark eyes on him, watching in silent judgement.

Athos moved to pull Aramis' doublet off when the motion jarred his shoulder. The movement caught Aramis off guard and he couldn't prevent a pained cry from escaping. He twisted away from Athos' grip and hunched over, clutching his left arm to his side.

"What is it?" Athos' eyes widened in alarm.

"My shoulder." The words were a strained whisper. He gestured towards his chest. "Collarbone." He breathed slowly and deeply, forcing down the aching throb as quickly as he could.

He felt D'Artagnan shift next to him. "May I?"

Aramis nodded as he straightened up. He pressed his mouth into a pinched line, embarrassed by his overreaction. The Gascon delicately ran his fingers over the line of Aramis' shoulder, applying gentle pressure as he went along. Aramis bit back a groan and D'Artagnan winced in sympathy when the bone gave under his touch. "Definitely broken. There's not much I can do for it, I'm afraid."

"I know."

D'Artagnan pursed his lips, his face thoughtful. "We can place it in a sling. Was it the fall?"

The marksman nodded.

"Why didn't you say something about it?" Porthos' voice rumbled through the small room. Aramis glanced up at the big Musketeer. He hadn't moved from his spot since lighting the fire, distancing himself from the three other Musketeers.

Aramis grimaced. "To what end?"

D'Artagnan and Athos resumed divesting Aramis of his doublet, moving more slowly in order to avoid jostling his arm. D'Artagnan hissed in displeasure when a scarlet-dyed bandage was revealed underneath the markman's stiff shirt.

"You told me this had stopped bleeding," D'Artagnan said. Aramis closed his eyes against the Gascon's accusatory tone.

"I told you I thought it had. It was a bit difficult to know for certain."

A loud disbelieving huff came from Porthos' general direction, and Athos raised an eyebrow at Aramis. "This is a considerable amount of blood."

"It likely looks worse than it is," Aramis muttered under his breath.

"Somehow, I doubt that," Athos disagreed. Aramis held still as D'Artagnan carefully cut away the soiled bandage with his dagger. The Gascon made a frustrated noise as he probed the edges of the long slash; a gleam of white bone shined through the red maw of the clotted wound.

"This is not a trivial wound, Aramis. It should have been stitched up immediately." Aramis sighed internally at D'Artagnan's scolding tone. "Is there anything else I should know about before I begin?"

"His leg," Athos replied quickly before Aramis could think. The two other Musketeers pulled off his boots to expose a blood-soaked stocking.

Athos and D'Artagnan jumped when an ear-splitting clang of metal burst through the air as Porthos furiously kicked over an iron stand holding fireplace tools. The implements scattered across the wooden floor as the big man stomped out of the room without a glance or a word to the other Musketeers. Regret and dismay flooded through Aramis as he watched Porthos go. Despite the years and distance that had separated them during the war, Porthos had never seemed further from Aramis than he did at that moment.

"He's worried," D'Artagnan said softly, glancing up at the former monk after Porthos left the room.

"I'm not so sure that was worry," Aramis replied, closing his eyes. He was suddenly tired, more tired than he'd been in a very long time. All his remaining strength drained from him as he leaned forward, digging his elbows into his knees. He felt as if he'd been stripped bare, both literally and figuratively, and been found wanting.

A light hand landed on the back of his neck and gave him a gentle squeeze. "He'll come around," Athos said quietly. "D'Artagnan is right. He's forgotten what it's like to see you like this. We all have."

Although he knew that Athos meant his words to be a comfort, they left Aramis feeling cold. It was as if he had forgotten to move forward with passing time, and that he was still trying to live the life he'd led four years ago while the others had moved on without him. Since his return to Paris, he'd been scrambling to find his place in this new era and thus far, his brothers hadn't shown much inclination to help him find his way. Aramis did not blame them; they were simply...busy. _What were you expecting?_ he asked himself wearily _._ Aramis found that he honestly did not know the answer.

He tuned out the other two Musketeers as they resumed treating his wounds, lost in the mire of his own thoughts. The alcohol-soaked cloth that D'Artagnan pressed against his ribs caught him by surprise, and the harsh, acid burn of it overwhelmed him, wrenching out an agonized gasp and then...

Nothing.

* * *

Athos sat stretched out in his chair, one leg extended in an effort to relieve some of the strain on the shallow wound above his hip. Between the tight stitches that Aramis had placed and the healing paste that the old herbalist had smeared on his skin, it had already begun to knit, forming a thin pink line under a neat row of black thread. He took a sip of the tea that the town healer had left behind the previous night, trying to ease the ache that still echoed through his head. Athos found that the cooler temperature of the liquid did nothing to improve the foul taste.

The captain idly flipped through a deck of cards he'd found in one of Porthos' bags as he kept a watchful eye on the still figure laid out on the bed before him. Aramis had stirred a couple of times since passing out, and had eventually fallen into a restless sleep. The markman was still pale in the bright morning sunlight, but to Athos' relief, he looked much healthier than he had the night before.

Aramis' presence was a problem. _No,_ Athos immediately corrected himself. _Not a problem. Never that. More of a conundrum._ Athos was genuinely thrilled to have his brother back with them. He'd missed Aramis terribly, and had often longed for the buoying support of the marksman's optimism during the darkest days of war. He'd overheard the conversation between Aramis and Porthos in Douai, and while he'd disagreed with the spiteful spirit in which the words were said, Athos had to admit Porthos was right. They'd learned to live without Aramis, for better or for worse.

And now that Aramis was back, Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan were supposed to reshuffle to make room for their newly returned brother, but it was slowly dawning on Athos that they weren't doing so very quickly or very well. When D'Artagnan had quite literally stormed into their lives, he'd fallen in with them with a natural ease. It stood to reason that it should have been even easier for Aramis to integrate himself back into their brotherhood, but that did not appear to be the case.

It wasn't clear to the captain why that was, but Athos suspected that part of it had to do with a large Musketeer who was still stung by a rejection that occured four years past. _Although, that is too convenient an explanation,_ Athos thought. _Perhaps we expect too much effort from Aramis, and not enough from ourselves. From myself._ He was the captain, after all, and Aramis was one of his oldest, dearest friends.

Before he could muse further, noise from the narrow bed caught his attention. Brown eyes slowly blinked open as Aramis stifled a groan.

"Porthos?" Aramis' voice was a painfully dry croak.

"It's Athos."

"Ah." The marksman carefully maneuvered himself upright, his hand hovering over his bandaged ribs. The captain reached over to grab a second cup that had been left for Aramis and handed it over once the other man was settled. "Thank you, mon ami."

Aramis took a small sip to wet his throat and Athos had to stifle a smile when a look of absolute disgust passed over his face. "So this is what it has come to? You're trying to poison me on my sickbed?" he asked weakly.

Athos raised an amused eyebrow. "Hardly. It's the healer woman's concoction. I was told it would relieve pain and help you regain your strength."

The marksman peered down at the cup with revulsion. "It seems more likely to speed me to my death. None of my brews has ever been this bad."

"I beg to differ," Athos muttered. "I can remember quite a few that have been worse. Finish it, Aramis. You need the liquid."

The marksman hurriedly gulped down the rest and tilted his head back against the wall with his eyes closed. "How are your wounds?"

"They are healing."

Aramis made a satisfied sound. "And D'Artagnan?" His eyes flew open in distress. "Where is he?" When the marksman predictably tried to get up, Athos leaned over and gently pressed a hand against his friend's chest.

"Peace, Aramis," Athos said. "D'Artagnan is doing well. He is resting, as you should be. Porthos procured another room last night. I think it is safe to say that we will never be welcome at this inn again."

Aramis smiled. "Porthos' particular brand of charm can be a bit overwhelming."

Athos nodded in agreement. "Especially when it's forced upon you in the middle of the night." He considered Aramis with an appraising eye. His brother looked oddly muted, and Athos was certain that it had to do with more than his physical wounds.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Pardon?" The marksman gave Athos a wary look.

"What happened to D'Artagnan was not your fault."

Aramis frowned. "I don't agree. I don't think Porthos would either."

The captain sighed. "There is only so much you can control in a fight. Even the best skill sometimes isn't enough to prevent bad outcomes."

"Perhaps," Aramis said quietly. "But this should have been preventable. It was an easy shot, Athos. I shouldn't have missed. I wouldn't have, four years ago."

"Then we will ensure that it doesn't happen again," the captain reassured him. "If we can transform green farmboys into fine Musketeers, then surely we can help one of the best regain his form."

"I'm sure D'Artagnan will appreciate that he's still referred to as a 'green farmboy'," Aramis said, hiding the tremor of emotion that ran through him behind a grin. He took a deep, careful breath. "I'm sorry, Athos."

The captain shook his head. "There is no need to apologize to me. You made the best decisions you could. We may not fully understand them, but we will respect them." Athos understood that Aramis was no longer talking about their current mission. He knew better than perhaps anyone that even the most rational choices could go astray. He hadn't necessarily agreed with Aramis' decision to stay cloistered, but it wasn't his place to tell his brother what to do, especially in a matter so deeply personal. He trusted Aramis enough to know that the vow must have been of tremendous importance if it held him back from joining them during the war. He also understood the need for atonement. "You and I, we are very alike in some respects," Athos continued. "We have both made mistakes for which others have paid the price. Porthos, and even D'Artagnan...they don't have such burdens to carry. At least, not as heavy as the ones we bear."

Aramis nodded knowingly. Athos suspected that Aramis had already come to the same conclusions. "It can be difficult to understand," the marksman said quietly. He was about to sit back when something caught his eye. "Are those my pistols?"

Athos turned to see what Aramis was looking at. Two elegant weapons sat on a dresser by the door, bundled in a piece of clean cloth.

"They are." Athos got up out of his chair before Aramis could move to retrieve the guns. He handed them to the marksman, who received them reverently and then unshrouded them.

Aramis had always treated his custom pistols with great respect. Athos knew what his brother would be seeing, and knew that he would be very pleased. The intricate firing mechanisms had been meticulously cleaned, and the barrels had been wiped to remove any trace of gunpowder residue that may have clung to them. The wooden stock had been polished to a high gloss and both guns gleamed with a thin coat of protective oil. It was obvious that they'd been lavished with close, careful attention.

"Did you clean these for me?"

Athos shook his head. "Porthos claimed to be terribly bored by watching D'Artagnan sleep," he said casually. "It's understandable. The boy sleeps like the dead."

Aramis' eyebrows shot up. "Porthos hates cleaning his weapons."

Athos tilted his head speculatively. "Perhaps, but he loves his brothers more." It pained him to have to make the point out loud. Once upon a time, it would have been tacitly understood and accepted.

The marksman inhaled sharply. He stared down at the pistols in his lap and turned them over in his hands, admiring their glossy sheen. Athos waited patiently as Aramis sat in silence that stretched several minutes. "I will have to thank him for his great sacrifice," he finally murmured. "My guns look like new."

"I'm sure he will appreciate it, but there's no need," Athos said. "I know things may be different than they were, but don't ever question your place with us."

"Thank you, mon ami," Aramis said. "No matter how well I know, it is still good to hear." There was a pause, and then a small, genuine smile touched his lips as some of the merriment that constantly used to peek out of the marksman's eyes made a shy reappearance. "So, when are we leaving? I believe I have some catching up to do."

Athos rolled his eyes. He knew things would not be easy - for them, they rarely were - but he was encouraged. Despite the friction between them, Athos knew that Porthos' big heart and Aramis' forgiving nature would eventually see them through. Despite all the changes between them, Athos had faith that the dependable core of each of Musketeer would remain true, and that they would remain brothers, in whatever form, until the end.

 _end_

* * *

 _Ta da! We have made it through. Apologies for the lame ending - I struggled with it a bit and then decided it wasn't going to get any better. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed, especially to the guest reviewers to whom I couldn't reply. Until next time!_


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